


The Last Night of the Kings

by hairdye_silverfindings



Series: AP English IV Fanfiction [2]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Makin' Shit Up, One-Shot, Rohan, Shieldmaidens, Strong Norse Mythology Influences, The War of the Ring, Vikings, War, shameless self-insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-04
Updated: 2014-02-04
Packaged: 2018-01-11 04:51:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1168894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hairdye_silverfindings/pseuds/hairdye_silverfindings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's having a thing and losing it. War and lovers.</p>
<p>Quick short one-shot set in the Rohan, written for a class assignment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Night of the Kings

**Author's Note:**

> My English teacher assigns us these 'creative writing' assignments where we can write anything that's three pages or longer and get a grade. Basically the only thing I do is write different fanfictions based on whatever movie I'm watching whenever I'm writing them. This is the 2nd one I turned in I think, and it was written after an LotR Extended Editions Marathon.

She had bade him goodbye, like all the rest, quietly, in the shadow of the stables, her hands clinging to his. She was not desperate, she did not want him to go, but she was proud that he was. He looked beautiful in his armor, an Atheling among commoners. He smiled at her and she knew that if he did not return she would not be able to continue. She would be like Nanna in the myths, and die upon his breast of heartbreak, sorrow and love.

“Come home.” She said. “Do not stay for glory or for death. Come home to me.” He smiled and dropped his head, bringing her hand up to his mouth to kiss gently. His bread scratched at her knuckles and his hair fell into his face.

“If you do not come home,” she said leaning forward, “I will be forced to come after you, and walk the Path of the Heroes and we will meet where ravens fly and I will bring you back to me.” He laughed and smiled at her again, running his hands through her fiery hair.

“I do not doubt it,” he said, and there was the stomp of the horses on packed dirt around them. He looked up, their hands still clasped. “I should go,” he murmured looking back to her. She nodded and withdrew her hands from him.

“I shall be here when you return,” she said. He smiled again and leaned down to kiss her almost chastely on the lips. She remembered the way his hair shone in the sun as he mounted his horse, and the way he grinned – almost savagely – before calling his riders to arms. She raised her hand to him and he inclined his head and he was gone with the rest. She stood in the sun, hair whipping around her face in the fierce wind, watching them ride out, and then returned to her chambers in the Golden Hall.

*                                                                           

They received word of the victory and she was relieved. There was little more said, a quick and passing message on the back of a raven, and then nothing more. And she waited and waited and the weather grew cold and she helped with the harvest and worked in the fields. There were more messages, simple ones. The Death of their Théoden King, Éomer’s ascendance to the throne on the battlefield. The Coronation of King Elessar of Gondor, the destruction of Evil. The messages kept her going, kept her working, kept her from crying. Because a Shieldmaiden of Rohan does not cry.

*

She did not keep time; she did not know how long he was gone, but it was a season at least. She was seated before a fire in her chambers, with her handmaiden, laughing and talking. She ran a brush through her handmaiden’s hair, working out the tangles from the night. It was nowhere near early, but they had been up late the night before, drinking and reveling, for it had been Up-Helly-Aa, and they had spent the night chasing trolls and dancing. As she worked the tangles out of her handmaiden’s hair they laughed, but her laugh was sad, as it always was. Her father, one of the King’s Marshals, had died in battle when she was still young and Théoden King took her into his house where she had lived and grown and caught the eye of Théoden’s young nephew, Éomer. She was as good as nobility, and she knew it.

“Do you think he will return?” her handmaiden asked. She sighed, combing her fingers though her handmaiden’s dark thick hair. After she did not answer for a moment, her handmaiden called her name, “Saga?”

“Hmm?” she said looking up. “What was that Snotra?”

“Do you think he will return,” Snotra repeated, glancing over her shoulder as Saga reached for ribbons to tie into her hair. “Éomer?” Saga grinned as she begin to braid the other’s hair.

“Of course,” Saga replied. “He will return in great glory, now that there is no more darkness in the world. He will return with trumpets and cheering, like the kings of old. He will march through the streets and the glory he has won will be told forever. He will ride home to us, in the beauty that is only told in stories. The sons of our sons will remember his name, and they will remember the glory that Rohan has won in this age, our bravery and the thunder of the hooves of our horses will live on in his name.” Saga’s hands braided Snotra’s hair quickly and efficiently, to keep it clean of horse hair and dirt. “Can you hear it Snotra?”

Snotra looked up at Saga’s almost wolfish grin. “Here what?” Snotra asked and her Lady rushed around the small foot stool on which Snotra was seated to the great windows, throwing open the frames, letting the wind into her room to tangle her hair and pull at her dress.

“Our soldiers marching home! Can you hear the hooves on the dirt? Can you hear the glory?” Saga asked with a laugh, leaning out into the air. The weather was cold still, and there was snow on the ground. The air smelt like the dirt of horses and the dim perfume of snow on the mountains. She could smell the wheat of the harvest, long over now, and the hay in the stables just beyond her window.

“We will feast tonight,” Saga decided. “To honor our slain. The victorious dead.”

“I was thinking the same,” a voice from the door called out, rough and deep. Saga turned and her heart stopped in her throat. He was there, at the entrance to her chambers, golden and broad as ever before, with his helm under his arm and a grin on his face.

“Éomer,” she said and was in his arms in an instant, her hair getting caught in his armor. “You’ve come home.”

“Of course I did.” He smiled. “I remembered your pledge, to find me where the crows meet. I could not bring myself to let your loose upon the Golden Halls of the gods to find me.” She laughed and embraced him tighter. “I am sorry to disappoint you and your grand imaginations of trumpets and shouting in the streets. My men are tired.”

“You never disappoint,” she said.

Éomer, the 18th King of the Mark, lived a long and prosperous life, ruling over the Eorlingas and riding in to battle alongside King Elessar for 65 years before his death. His name was held in high regard for ages to come, as was the name of his queen, Saga, and the name of his sister, the Lady of the Shield-arm. He and his queen were buried beneath the _simbelmynë_ together, in the mounds around Edoras, Home of the Horse Lords.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments are widely welcome.


End file.
